Ain't No Rest For The Wicked
by VioletCitizen
Summary: Or: How Talon's top agents became Overwatch's top agents. Capturing them, really, was the easiest part. Redeeming them? It's going to take all the manpower they have. Ft. Edgelord, Dothack, and Blueberry.
1. Reaper's Really Bad Day

Gabriel Reyes isn't.

In a kind of way, he supposes it makes sense. It was his own damn fault and so here he was, steel beam through his stomach, burns across his body, tearing him into pieces. His throat is raw, the pain has almost faded because there is so much. He can't scream, because what good will it do? He's happy, he thinks, that he has lived this long without feeling this kind of pain. Oh god, the pain.

Dios Mio, he has never.. Blood and guts fall out of him like pennies out of a pouch and his only thought is _why have I not died yet_. Why. The choking air should have killed him by now, with the fiery searing heat of the metal around his broken form, his hair half burned off from the initial blast. He's seen greater men die from less.

What had they done that let him suffer like this? What had they done to _them_? Morrison.

Please let Morrison be dead.

Please let Overwatch have died. If there's nothing else, he wants this to mean something. Oh god, the pain. He's going insane, blood dripping from glass shards embedded in his legs. Broken bones. Escape routes closed off by fire. He can't crawl, either. His guns had been left behind, and they were the only option for getting out of this.

If he does survive, it's not going to be in a state he wants to live in.

So when he sees the god forsaken light coming, shining off the rubble, he screams.

No, please. Let me die. His vision swims, he twitches, and the wings of light reach him.

"Let me die." He asks. Pleads. Her staff, soot covered and chipped, comes to rest in front of him.

 _"Helden Sterben Nicht!"_

* * *

Reaper is.

Chained. He opens what could be called eyes, peering through the hollow holes in his new face. How uncomfortable it is to be back in this skin again. The malice burns and he searches for a kill tool. As usual.

The room is barren. Steel, chrome, with a table and mirrored walls. He's chained to the chair. They rattle but do not give.

Ah, yes. The pain's back. Almost missed it.

Where..?

Click. The door opens. A beam of golden light slides against the floor, shifting until it hits him in his shadowed slumber. Gah.

A shadow passes in front of him and the door closes again. He blinks.

"Why, howdy."

Could it be? The ragged teen.. Now, man, who stood there was cocksure and grinning like a scoundrel, brim upturned and gait lopsided. He had no revolver. His now-adult face was ringed with a roguish beard and stubble, but there was something about his eyes that reminded Reyes of the brat he had known.

"Well, well, if it isn't… Clint Eastwood." Reaper's voice was nails on chalkboard. He reminded himself that he usually spoke in a whisper.

"We can call each other names all day, partner. Fact of the matter is that we got ya, dead to rights. And we got your pals, too. Smurfette ain't sayin much but the hacker ain't too good at resisting.. pressure."

"As I expected." His blood was boiling.

Mccree scratched his chin.

"You know, it took four of us to put you under. Four. When we tried to take the mask off, what we saw wasn't a pretty sight. What in tarnation happened to ya?"

Mccree turned around and faced away, his arms folded.

"Really, I've had a suspicion bout who you are. Were. Ain't that right, boss? Ex-boss."

Reaper had to pause. Mccree wasn't going according to plan.

"Do enlighten me, agent."

"You're the guy who trained me to kill. Your fightin' style.. It reminded me of somethin'. Someone. I mean, it wasn't too big a leap of logic or anythin', but I reckon guys who wear black and use two shotguns aint too common."

McCree bit on his cigar, turning around and placing his metal hand on the table.

"'specially after Angie said that one traitor Gabriel Reyes survived that devastating explosion back at base. Now, where would he go? Disturbed and full of malice, where would a traitor go? To the competition." McCree grinned.

"Well done, you connected the dots. We'll see about getting you a coloring book next, Peashooter."

McCree laughed.

"You know, I had a lotta respect for you, back then. What are you now, even? Wearin' a silly costume like some common varmint, goin' around, killing some folks? You used to be all about savin' lives. Teamwork. Hell, I'd even say.."

Jesse took a seat. Reyes met him, eye to eye.

"You were better at commanding' us than Morrison. Sure, he was optimistic, but you understood all of us better than he could. You knew that most of us had done some pretty shady things back in the day, and you let all that slide. I had a lotta respect for you."

"Thanks for the compliment. Of course, won't change anything when I fill you with bullets, but I'll remember this conversation."

McCree sighed and pulled out his cigarette, extinguishing the smoke with the cool metal of the table. "Just bein' honest. Honesty's a trait all too rare in these days."

He tilted the brim of his hat.

"We're thinkin' about just killing you and bein' done with it all."

"Please do. I'd really appreciate it."

"Ya know, it scares me that I don't think you're lying about that."

Reaper growls. Yes. He lets that annoying, itching, needling malaise of what _was_ and is _no_ longer seep into his soul. Aches in his legs, in his arms, in his throat. Dust unsettles.

"I'll make no secret that my existence hurts me. Wounds me. It's the kind of pain that makes me want to _kill_. Why do you think... I do what I do? Even now, it's an ever persistent reminder of what people have done to me.. in my life."

"You all never did treat me like I deserved. Like I was truly… helping, the way I _knew_ I was. I was always the villain."

He laughed.

"If I was always the villain.. Let me be the villain."

McCree scoffed, gritting his teeth and narrowing his eyes.

"There ain't no reasoning that allows a man to hurt innocents. The Reyes who taught me about the duty we have to the world would have known that. But turnin' coats like that must've changed ya."

"That Reyes is dead. You're alive. There's a problem there."

McCree stayed silent.

"So… Where did you go?" Jesse asks.

"To Hell."

And then, McCree looked away. For a while, there was a pregnant pause in the air, only the heavy breathing of the wraith and the sizzle of the cigarette offering any sound. In the hallway, there was an undercurrent of muffled conversation.

"Mercy's gonna come in and check on you. See what.. _This_ all is."

Reaper shook. Something dark occupied the spot where Reaper was chained, wisps of midnight smoke trickling out of his prison, colder than death. The chains rattled, and McCree, for a second, widened his eyes and reached for his belt and the spot where Peacekeeper usually rested.

Finally, a rasp.

"If, even for a moment, that _woman_ lets her guard down, no matter how many sedatives and restraints you put on me…"

His eyes glowed with malice.

"I'm going to reach around her neck and tear her throat out."

McCree narrowed his eyes yet again, and tipped his hat.

"I'll keep that in mind, scum."

And then he left.

* * *

"Kid, you'd better make sure your aim isn't the only thing you pay attention to in the battlefield."

Jesse darted his head to his left. He damn near jumped out of his skin. Reyes perched on the bench, eying the teenager. Simple combat gear and his typical black jacket.

And, in a second, Reyes had his hand around Jesse's throat. Hard glove, kevlar enforced, constricted his throat, strong fingers entrapping his neck. For a second, he choked. And then just as quickly, the pressure slipped back into the air, and Gabriel stood, eye to eye with the younger man. Jesse coughed, sweat dripping down his temple.

"Keep an eye on your surroundings."

"You would be dead in any other situation. You're lucky I was on your side." Jesse glared at him.

Gabriel shrugged, taking a few steps back.

"Sorry, kid. But some lessons are best learnt the hard way."

"Alrighty, then." McCree shrugged. Gabriel raised one dark eyebrow. His beard twitched, with a shadow of a smile. He looked straight through Jesse, and the boy shifted uncomfortable on his boots.

"Not too bad a shot, though." He directed those eyes to ten meters in front of him, at the end of the room, where the ringed disks stood tall, save for the pierced spots along their centers where lead bullets marked the perfect accuracy of the six-shooter. "I'm decent."

"No, you're incredibly accurate. More than Morrison. More than me. More than Amari, probably. You have some skill with that gun." Mccree's face heated up slightly.

"Thank you. Sir."

"But that'd only work at range, isn't that right? What if someone with, say, dual shotguns, got up in your face and shot into your body repeatedly?"

"I'd aim for their face, sir."

"At that point, kid, it'd probably be too late."

Reyes tapped his temple with his finger. "Remember, strategy above firepower. You can shoot, but how can you get a clear shot at someone who is in melee range?"

McCree twitched. Was this a test?

"I could… stun them?"

Gabriel grinned slightly, his eyes trailing down to Jesse.

"You got the right idea, McCree. Ana might be able to help you with that."

"I'll talk to her, sir."

"You will, indeed, recruit."

McCree reclined over the counter, teeth sunk into a crispy apple. The sour juices trickled down his chin and he idly wiped them off with his poncho. The kitchen was loaded with snacks and foods of all varieties, courtesy of two over-affectionate women. The surfaces were crystal clean, streak marks of soap and dish cloth dotting each one. The granite underneath cracked occasionally, and Jesse traced along one such crack with his finger.

"Really." Gruff.

"Yeah."

"So. He's back."

"Ain't that a surprise." McCree tossed the apple into the trash can on the far wall, where it made a soft thud.

Morrison darted his eyes to the noise, before easing his muscles. Leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, visor abandoned, his eyes drifting to the ceiling. Scars disturbed the commander's classic, golden, handsomeness. His face had long hardened, his lips set in a stony scowl. That cursed jacket hid blood streaked bandages, the jacket itself cracked and torn, but, day after day, fight after fight, still carrying its weight. The immense burden on the Soldier's shoulders had eased. Taciturn had become thoughtful, and grim had turned serious. Day by day, Jack Morrison was reincarnating.

"He should have stayed dead. I'll make him wish he had."

Light, feminine footsteps. "You are like little children." White jacket, blonde hair parted in the middle. Tied up. "Where is my coffee." She raised her arms.

"Angela, you remember what he did."

"Coffee." Imperious.

McCree grumbled.

"What?! You haven't made it yet? You boys are hopeless!" The edge of her lips rose, and her bright, wide eyes held far more mischief that you could think capable of a delicate little swiss doctor. "And mind your manners, Jesse."

"Angela, even _you_ can't possibly think that Reyes deserves mercy."

"Deserves me? Hush, none of you deserve me." Jack rolled his eyes in a positively Hana-like fashion. Angela giggled. "You know what I mean, Ziegler. Not to mention he made a pretty explicit death threat to you."

"Reyes, Reaper, whatever he goes by now, is _still the same man at heart_. And he made one _Holle_ of a mean omelette. Plus, his threat? I've heard worse from scarier men."

"Angie, darlin', he's killed dozens of people. There's no tellin' what he could do if he got free."

Angela took a moment, but agreed. "Yes, he has. But which of us hasn't? Apart from me, of course."

"I doubt Song has killed too many people." Soldier argues. "And half of all our active agents, really."

Jesse interrupts.

"I think we're all missin' the point a bit. Fact of the matter is, Reyes ain't who is in that room right now. We're lookin' at a whole new kind of beast. And whatever he's gone and done can't be judged on account of some good ol' fashioned nostalgia."

Angela was handed her coffee, and thanked Jesse graciously. Jesse blushed slightly and tipped his hat.

Taking a sip. "Evil or not, Gabe or not, I have a duty to my patient." Her eyes flicked upwards, and widened. "MM, I _love_ your coffee. If you ever actually get around to making it, that is."

She put the mug down.

"Jesse, I want you to stay with me during Reaper's checkup. And keep your shooter on you."

"Ain't that against protoco-" Jesse started.

Angela nudged Jack, who shrugged idly. "Not having a weapon in there would be the dangerous option. I give you permission."

"But, why not inst-"

Angela gave him a deadpan glance. "Jesse, I know you hate wearing the hospital scrubs. So I'm just going to tell you, right now, that you do _not_ need to."

"Oh. Right, then." McCree breathed out. Angela shook her head.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some preparation to do."

* * *

When the patient awoke, his chair had changed. He groaned.

"I have.. Never. Ever. seen anything like this."

He'd recognize that soft lilt anywhere, and that accent…

His eyes shot open and his eyes bulged, looking for that _woman_. And there she was, clad in medical scrubs, twinkling back at him from behind a bright light burning directly into his retinas. He groaned.

"Looks like he woke up, Angie."

"Of course he did. Gabriel, how nice it is of you to join us. The doctor is _in_."

He opened his mouth. Well, tried. His jaw was not cooperative.

"Sorry, Liebling, but you've got more anesthetics in your body than I actually had in my clinic at the time. I'm guessing that you are not be able to move, no? Better safe than sorry, I alvays say."

"So, what's his deal, Angie?"

"Please refrain from asking me questions at this time."

McCree deflated. "Sorry."

"I'm just kidding. Vell, the first thing I can identify is that… I have no idea what is going on."

"Oh."

"Not exactly. I'll explain."

"You don't have to, darlin'."

"Nonsense, how vill you learn anything?" And so Reaper saw McCree lean over to look at.. Whatever they were looking at. He, himself, was drifting on a piece of wood in a drastic ocean, tumultuous waves threatening to overturn his raft at any time. Pure rage kept him conscious. How dare-

"Wow, he has a small pecker."

Mercy laughed out loud. "You are so _childish!_ Do not worry, Gabriel, your modesty is preserved. Jesse is just making his jokes as usual."

"Wasn't a joke." McCree muttered.

She then touched his hand. He felt it through the veil.

"See zis discoloration? This is dead cell matter, Jesse. But look, when I-"

"Oh my sweet Jesus, I didn't need to see that."

"But, _see_ , it grows back? Truly _remarkable_. Of course, I have seen cell regeneration before, many times. But not… quite like _this_.."

"Yeah, it looks like what happens when you use your staff on a wound or summat."

"Caduceus technology. I think I vill have to consider, _very carefully_ , what has happened to poor Gabriel and how to treat him. But, for the time being, I can whip up something that should calm him down."

Her form disappeared past the light, and McCree didn't move.

"Small world, eh? She wouldn't let us get rid of ya. Here's a compromise, though. She's gonna fix ya."

She returned, hand wrapped around a syringe. Could have been anything, but he guessed it was a syringe.

"There we go. Thank modern medicine for the _fastest_ synthetic manufacturing in history. Small miracles here and there should do _just_ fine. And I'll just…"

"So, what's _that_ do, doc?"

"Essentially, it stops his body from killing itself. Well, slows."

"Ah."

"That wood make him feel less pain after the anesthesia wears off, but he would be able to _move_ as well. In essence, he'll be more cooperative to _whatever_ you boys want to do to him later on. Don't torture him, though. Please."

"Understood. Thank you, darlin'."

Mercy smiled, audibly.

"Still waiting for a thanks from the patient!"

'Thank You.' His brain whispered.

"Die." He rasped, his tongue half frozen but still able to shape that word he loved so much. Mercy rolled her eyes but McCree scowled.

"I'll put him under for a bit longer, I think."

And so he fell asleep once again.


	2. Arachnid

AN: thanks for the notes! And yes, I'm dropping the spelling accents because of how much they can derail otherwise reasonable dialogue, plus my lack of experience with some of the more foreign accents in overwatch. (You'll have to imagine widow speaking in a heavy french accent for this one) This chapter got a bit simpler and less conclusive than I was hoping but I feel like it got to the length it needed to. Cheers!

"I'm telling you, Dvas are _not_ good for your health."

" _She_ has like, a lifetime supply of them! Why are you picking on me and not _her_?!"

Lucio reclined on the couch, watching some noisy trash. White logo tee and shorts. Fluorescent orange snack crumbs coated his lips and fingertips, three or so packets of the cursed snacks named after the Korean gamer on the plush couch alongside him. Jack groaned.

No exercise (except for the morning ten mile jogs he had them do, of course), snacks of all kinds shipped in from either Hana's sponsorships or a doting Ana, and _no restriction_. The other day, he had even caught Hana _watching an R-rated movie!_ Kids these days...

"Watch it, Lucy!" She had her head embedded miles into either Starcraft II or Diablo IV, talking out the corner of her mouth. "You know how he gets when he hasn't had his morning grumble!"

"True, true."

"You kids need to get more… _productive_ hobbies, honestly. Get up, get out, run a bit. Back in _my_ day, we-"

"Yeah, yeah, back in _your_ day, you used to kill _dozens_ of omnics every half minute. We get it, Mr. Morrison." Lucio yawned as loudly as he could, and 76 scowled.

He turned to regard the menace that was the youngest member of Overwatch. Flat on her belly, surrounded by a cabal of the least healthy snacks he had ever seen, and empty cans of whatever acid soda she had bulk ordered now.

With a -tweep-, the TV was off. Lucio sighed, dropping the remote and un-reclining the sofa, dropping onto his bare feet and stretching. Dva's screen continued to flash.

"So what's the status with those Talon guys you captured? They spilled anything yet?"

"Angela and Jesse are trying to figure out what's giving Reaper his strange powers. As for widowmaker, she needs to return to consciousness, so Ana is keeping tabs on her for the time being. I'm waiting for the call so I can interrogate her. Ana and her have a bit too much of a personal history for a truly unbiased interaction."

Lucio collected his snacks and tossed them in the trash, crinkling as they slid down the metal chute and were immediately sent to the incinerator.

"So what's her _deal_?" He touched his hand. "Why is she... _blue_?"

"Well.." Soldier sighed. "I suppose, as agents, you two have the right to know."

He turned away from the two, regarding an old photo perched on the wall. Lucio followed his eyes. A woman, young and beautiful, and a man, handsome and classy. The woman, he realized, was the _very same_ Widowmaker, but without the cruelty, without the spider. The man...

"She _used_ to be the wife of a high ranking Overwatch member. Gerard Lacroix."

"Gerard... We _all_ liked him for one reason or another. He truly was one of my, _our_ , greatest friends. And his wife, Amelie, was full of energy, happiness, and was one of the most harmless people you would _ever_ have the privilege to meet. She balanced out Gerard's mischievous streak with a kind of steely commitment to idealism that I haven't seen in a _long_ time."

A pause. "That's when she _disappeared_. Gerard was beside himself, for months and months, and we all were… confused, and lost. But then she showed up again, none the worse for wear, and we were all so _damn_ relieved that we..." Jack grit his teeth. "Turned out, what we had was not, in fact, Amelie. That fact was… painfully clear when she _killed_ her own husband in cold blood. And left. The _next_ time we saw her, she was what she is now. I'm guessing, personally, that whatever they did to her made her the emotionless killing machine she is now."

"That's horrible!" Lucio exclaimed. He sheepishly paused. "But why is she blue though?"

"It's obvious, right? She's a night elf." Hana munched on another Cheeto.

"Night elves are more purplish." Lucio reminded.

"James Cameron's Avatar six, then." Hana amended. "Fun fact, I have a cameo in that movie! Shame it bombed."

76 shook his head. Sigh. "I thought that it'd be easy after capturing these three enemy operatives. Now there's word going on around base, no doubt perpetuated by Dr. Ziegler, that our job is to _convert_ them to our side." He ran a hand through his hair, and his blue eyes lowered to the carpet. turned to regard him.

"Dad, you should play more Starcraft. It'll help ease the aching pain in your soul~"

"I'm not your dad. And I'm not Reaper, I don't have any 'aching pain', thank you very much."

Ring, ring. Jack brought up his comm.

"Jack, she's woken up. Says she's going to take my other eye." 's eyes lit up as she heard the maternal voice of the Egyptian lady who had earned a spot in the young woman's good graces. It took a lot of perseverance to convince Hana you were not just another schmuck, but, once you did, she _can_ and _will_ make you feel that additional favor with every smile and giggle.

"That's awful, Ana, I-" Jack scratched his chin.

"You know better than to feel sorry for me, Jack. Just thought you'd like to know."

"Know what?"

"Why she's knocked out." You could hear the coy smile.

"Oh."

He paused.

"Coming in anyways."

"Rowdy, this one." Ana tutted.

"I'll keep it in mind."

"Amari out."

He turned to the two young adults.

"Well, that's my cue."

Hana idly waved and Lucio grinned.

"Good luck with blueberry, pops!"

"Looks like I'm gonna need it."

* * *

When the spider awoke, she found herself back in an interrogation room full of mirrors.

She wasn't a stranger to mirrors. When she wasn't _her_ , she used to love making herself pretty. Contours, smooth skin, eyelashes, lipstick, and at the end of it all, she was a model, a goddess in her own human skin. Men melted and women blanched, and that's how she won battles: not with guns or knives, but with a smile and a wink. That's how she won Gerard's heart, after all.

And that same beauty; eternal, effortless, stared back at her from twenty different angles in every which direction. Her eyes idly darted across each surface, sliding past the ghost of those same eyes darting around in the same place. She affixed her view on the door, her hands wiggling. She wondered if dislocating her wrist would let her out of the handcuffs. Alternatively, she could choke the first person to come through the door with the cold metal, preferably one of the physically weak members like Ziegler, feeling the life leave them before she dropped their corpse on the ground and proceeded. Alas, her mobility was restricted by more metal locks than would be strictly _necessary_ for a hundred and ten pound unarmed woman.

Probably wasn't enough, though.

Amari had been in, just now, and Widowmaker had let her know that the animosity hadn't _stopped_ just because one of them was now bound and cuffed. In fact, _she_ had the power now, because Amari had so many chances to claim revenge and had been too _cowardly_ to do anything. So many, and the old wench had taken none of them. Pathetic.

The door opened, and a living ghost stepped through. Her eyes widened a fraction of a centimeter. There was that red visor, echoing her own dead stare, fear incarnate, and a masked mouth, betraying no emotion to the assassin. Widow tilted her head with curiosity.

He pulled the chair on the opposite side of the table, and it screeched as it slid across the floor. He took a seat, and regarded her. He dropped a folder on the table with a soft thwack, and was silent.

They sat, still, for a while. Widow smiled slowly.

"Lacroix."

"Bonjour~"

Soldier: 76 was unfazed.

"So, you are now cuffed and bound. Your friends will not break you out because they are in the same situation that you're in. And we all know that you three are the only reason Talon has had any success with their operations."

"Talon is like a bird of prey. Without its beak, it may be unable to feast, but it still has claws for which to tear you and all you love to bloody shreds."

"Talon is going to die, and you with it. Widowmaker, at least."

She gave him yet another coy smile.

"Believe what you choose to believe, cherie. When the dogs come, you will realize how so very little you are in the grand scheme of it all. Your superhero band will perish and you will be burying all your friends, if your friends are not burying you first."

76 tapped his gloved hand on the table, before moving his hand over and pulling something out of the manilla folder. A photograph.

"I found this on the wall. It's you and your husband."

Widowmaker watched 76 slide the photo down in front of her. She looked down into her own, younger eyes. And then into the eyes of her husband,

 _"Amelie? Sweetheart, what are you doing?"_

 _"Saying goodbye."_

 _And then she saw those same eyes widen and then blink, tears slipping down the cheeks of her once beloved. And then there was nothing left of him._

"Yes, that's him. Gerard."

Widowmaker sighed.

"I enjoyed killing him. I don't see why you're doing this. I don't care about what I've done. I don't care about anything anymore."

"Did you care about him, back then?"

"Amelie did. You cannot believe, seriously, that I care much for that man? Perhaps my old self might have had the _weakness_ to love as most of you people tend to do, but I am _above_ that."

76 put his chin in his hands, interlocking his fingers.

"You know, you told me a story once."

Amelie raised one elegant eyebrow.

"Oh, do tell?"

"In this day and age, you were always a bit too pure for the world. At least, that's what I thought, before you told me about the spiders."

He continued. "You started with a little girl. Seven or eight, I think. And this little girl was afraid of spiders." Widowmaker grinned. "Why was she? Because they fear nothing, and have no emotion, no fear, no love, no appreciation for art, no appreciation for others, no empathy, no sympathy. The spider weaves a web and god forsake _whatever_ ends up in that web. It is now dead and _everything_ it had ever been willing to amount to is now dust in the wind."

"Ah, but I learnt something about spiders."

"What is that?"

"At the moment of the kill…They have never felt more alive."

76\. "My mother told me that story, back on the farm. The spider kills because it's the only way it has to survive. Men, however… men do not eat men. Men kill because they like it. With as many killers as we have, sometimes we ask, 'why?' _That's_ your answer. It's an _addiction_. And with an addiction, comes a lack of control. A submission to your base desires."

"But you are addicted as well, are you not, Morrison?"

"I don't know. Maybe, maybe not. But I know, for a fact, that _you_ are."

Widowmaker closed her eyes.

"Do you want to know what it felt like to _kill_ Gerard? Do you want to know how his final moments were spent, before he the way of the fly who wandered into the spider's web?"

"I do."

"It felt like I was being _gifted_. It felt like I had gotten a mandate from heaven itself, promising glory in the highest. It was the first kill out of dozens, but I still remember what it felt like, at that moment. He always _was_ such a handsome man. When he was on top of me, I used to love to stare into that face and let myself soak in the beauty of the moment. " Her eyes stared into the mirror, just past the soldier.

"When I killed him, whatever pleasure I had, before… was infinitesimal. It was _truly_ enlightening. I remember showering afterwards, washing off my former husband's blood, and when I saw myself in the mirror, I was… anew. I was never really suited for matrimony, anyways. I always prefered working alone."

Soldier: 76 didn't have much to say.

"I'm sorry."

"You're being genuine. Unfortunately, I don't care."

"I'm sorry, Amelie, for what they did to you."

"And I am sorry for the curse that you humans all share. To be so burdened by morality that you cannot see how my work is more important than _any_ robot or man."

"Get well soon."

He left.

Widowmaker sighed.


End file.
